Something More
by Phantom Rose 0617
Summary: After a frustrating week, Christine enlists Erik's help to cheer her up. A little novelette set somewhere after Erik is revealed to be a man (and not the Angel of Music), but before the lair scene. Slightly A/U. Kay/ALW/Leroux. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

**Something More**

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by: Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay, Andrew Lloyd Webber, and including but not limited to various publishers and companies associated with _The Phantom of the Opera_ since its first French publication in 1909/1910 and its first English publication in 1911. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

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Chapter 1

Christine stumbled through her dressing room door, cursing as she tripped over the edge of a small, square fabric-covered ottoman, and tumbled into a heap of pale pink skirts onto the carpeted floor. She didn't recall leaving the footstool at such a precarious angle to the door. The satin laces of her right toe shoe had unraveled and caught on its wooden leg. The rug gave her brush burns on her elbow and knee as she skidded down on her side, her hair a tangled mess in her face. The wind was momentarily knocked out of her from her graceless fall.

Groaning, she spit out a curl in frustration and glanced at the mirror, hoping _**he**_ was not there to see her make such a spectacle of herself.

 _No such luck!_ Of course not! Not after the week she had endured.

She saw the mirror turn on its pivot just as she heard his concerned voice.

"Christine, are you all right?"

No doubt he'd been a witness to her disaster of a week, the worst she'd had since she had come to the Opera. She could add embarrassment to the long list of emotions she'd felt that week.

Erik was assessing her with his eyes for injuries, but he made no move to help her up as he crouched over her. Contented that nothing was broken, he backed away from her. She twisted around, her hair still in her face, and let out another low curse. She moved her mop of curls out of her eyes and glared at him. His mouth twitched slightly and there was a gleam in his golden eyes, but he said nothing.

It was irrational to be angry with him. It was not his fault she had fallen; it was not his fault she'd had a terrible week, that every silly and ridiculously annoying little thing that could have happened to her had happened. Still, she wanted to snap at him. She wanted to take her frustration out on someone, and he was currently the easy target.

"Be a gentleman, will you?" she asked bitingly. She held out her hand, indignant, as he continued to stare at her in amusement.

"You know, for a dancer, you can be alarmingly clumsy," he said thoughtfully.

"Is that your attempt to make me feel better?" she asked. She felt like sticking out her lower lip and pouting but doubted such tactics would work with him.

"No," he said, and before she could think of a witty retort, he was hoisting her to her feet. His strong arms held her steady, his body surprisingly warm against hers. His eyes met hers from behind the mask for the briefest second, slightly mischievous. There was something in that golden gaze that made her uncomfortable before he plopped her down onto the ottoman that had caused her so much grief. He was slow in releasing his hands from her bare arms before kneeling in front of her. When he finally did, she shivered and crossed her arms over her chest, her hands moving to the places where his had been, rubbing them up and down as gooseflesh rose on her skin. Thinking she was cold, Erik pulled a shawl off a nearby chair and draped it around her shoulders over her chorus costume.

"Seriously, Christine, are you hurt?" he asked quietly, his eyes sincere once more.

She shook her head. "I just scraped my elbow is all."

"May I?" he asked tentatively, reaching for her arm but not touching her until she nodded. She turned her elbow slightly toward him to show him the abrasion.

"It's just a scratch," she said dismissively, but he would not allow her protests. He held her arm steadily and tilted her elbow closer to him.

As he carefully examined her arm, she took the opportunity to study him, from the white mask to the impeccably embroidered waistcoat down to his shiny black shoes. She didn't mention her smarting knee, fearful of him asking to see it as well. She could pretend all she wanted that he was only a father-figure to her, her mentor, her teacher – but when it came down to it, the intimacy of their acquaintance hinted at more. He may speak to her as if she was a child at times, but there was no mistaking his smoldering gaze when he looked at her, or his loving glance when she sang for him. He wanted more from her; she could sense it, even when he did not say it. And she could act like a child in return, but it was difficult to ignore her pounding pulse or the tremors in her belly when he touched her – even fleetingly as he was now. When he looked at her with passion, her insides felt like molten lava. She did not even know if he knew when he was doing it, but her reaction to him was not that of a girl, but of a woman – the full-grown twenty-year-old woman that she was, even if she did not feel like it at times. Sometimes it scared her; other times she realized she wanted something more from him as well. Just how much more, she didn't quite know – _yet_.

Abruptly, he stood up and said, "Wait here."

He disappeared into the adjoining washroom. Before she could register he was gone, he returned in a graceful swirl of black cloak with a small medical kit.

"I like to be prepared for all possible situations," he mumbled by way of explanation.

He gently grasped her arm and began his ministrations with his cool fingers. He applied moderate pressure with a clean cloth, washing the small amounts of blood away.

"So, tell me about your week," he said, seeking to distract her from the sting of her wound. He dabbed at her elbow with some ointment.

She laughed half-heartedly. "I know you've been busy working, but it can't have completely escaped your notice what a debacle this week has been."

"It hasn't," he agreed, that little quirk returning to his mouth. His fingers felt soothing against her heated skin as he wrapped her elbow in gauze.

"I suppose you're going to chastise me," Christine sighed and waited for his onslaught of criticism. She was sure he was going to tell her that her posture had been bad during yesterday's rehearsal, which was why another chorus member had dropped her during a rather standard lift. She thought he might mention how her pitch had been so off-key she had caused distraction to the set manager, whereby he had misdirected the stagehands to place a backdrop in front of La Carlotta as she'd been singing instead of behind her. Of course, the woman had blamed that on the Opera Ghost and not on Christine, though he'd had nothing to do with it. She was sure Erik would point out every gaffe, every misstep, every wrong note that had plagued her week, but he didn't.

"Not at all," he said, securing the bandage and stepping away from her. "We'll have to watch that for infection."

He returned the little medical kit to the washroom and came to stand a few feet from her.

She suddenly felt guilty for not telling him about her knee. If he was this concerned over her elbow, what would he do if she told him her knee felt ten times worse and was currently throbbing under skirts?

"You're not going to lecture me?" she asked tentatively.

"No," he repeated, amused. "I daresay you learned your lessons this week. You don't need me to repeat every _faux pas_ to your face. That would serve no purpose."

"I suppose you're right. I imagine I deserved what happened to me this week," she said sadly. She looked down at her shoes.

"That's not what I meant at all." His voice was reprimanding now. "I simply meant you're being hard enough on yourself without me adding to it."

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "But you can't know how sorry I'm feeling for myself."

"I'm an expert at self-pity, my dear. Believe me, I can well imagine what you're thinking," he said wryly.

He turned toward the mirror as if ready to retreat from the room.

"How thoughtless of me," she said, standing up and moving to stop him. Her knee was still smarting, but she gritted her teeth to hide it from Erik. "You must think I'm terribly selfish for behaving so."

She leaned against him ever so slightly, their reflections side by side in the mirror.

"Thank you for caring for me," she whispered to him, touching his arm lightly. He watched her fingers as they rubbed casually up and down the satin of his cloak.

"You are due back at rehearsal," he reminded her, his voice a bit raspy.

"I don't want to go back to rehearsal," she pouted. She had a legitimate excuse for skipping it, but she didn't tell him that. "Let's do something fun instead!"

"Fun?" he questioned, as if he'd never heard of the word. His eyes were full of doubt as they watched her in the mirror.

She couldn't believe she was suggesting such a thing to her strict teacher. He would never condone her missing rehearsal, especially after the week she'd had; she could use all the practice she could get. Still, she wondered if she might be able to persuade him otherwise. She leaned her head into his shoulder, eyeing him sweetly in the mirror. He appeared startled at her display of affection.

"I need cheering up, and I'm likely to break my neck if I go back to rehearsal now. Please Erik, I know you're busy composing, but can you think of nothing to make me feel better? I cannot bear to go back there. I'm tired of being laughed at," she told him desperately.

It was true. The other chorus members had been ruthless in their sarcasm this week. She'd been chewed out by every superior, Madame Giry included. Even Meg had laughed at her a little. La Carlotta had been the worst, of course. That woman was the cruelest female Christine had ever met. The thought of facing the prima donna after another disastrous day was too much for her.

Erik, as if sensing the direction of her thoughts, appeared as though he may take pity on her now. She wanted him to give in but didn't think it would be right to entice him in the wrong way. With Raoul, she might have flirted and teased. But with Erik, she had to be careful, subtle, so as not to alarm him. She gently squeezed his hand and waited patiently for his answer, peeking at him through her lashes when his silence lingered too long.

"Very well," he sighed in defeat. "Perhaps we can go to the Bois after dark."

"After dark? But what of now?" she asked him, trying not to sound too whiny.

She took a chance and laced her fingers through his. She heard his breath catch. She wasn't about to let him return to the bowels of the Opera House and leave her alone. She wanted him with her. She closed her eyes, enjoying the feel of his long fingers against hers, and waited.

"Hmm," his voice hummed. Even the smallest sound from him was musical.

She dared to open her eyes and look at him. He was considering her words. This enigma of a man was caving to her. The thought was empowering.

He eyed her steadily, not wanting to give her all the control. As usual, their relationship was a delicate balance, a push and pull to see who would win out.

"I have just the thing," he said mysteriously, after a moment.

He smiled at her, not a mocking quirk of his thin lips but a real smile. She needed to learn how to trigger that reaction in him more often. It made her insides go warm, like she was basking in the sun.

"Give me twenty minutes. I'll drop a little message from O.G. with the managers to explain your absence, and then I'll return," he said. Then he commanded in a firm voice, "Change into something warm."

To her surprise, he kissed her fingers lightly, then let her go and disappeared behind the mirror.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Christine was ready five minutes early. She dressed in her best blue gown and favorite midnight-colored cloak. She left the red scarf hanging on its peg on the wall. No thoughts of Raoul and their friendship would infiltrate her mind on this day. No burning questions or reflections on tough future choices would ruin her enjoyment of whatever Erik had planned. She simply wanted to enjoy the rest of the day with him.

She paced in front of the mirror. After Erik had left, she had hurriedly attended to her knee, copying his earlier actions using the little medical kit in the washroom. Satisfied she had done as well as she could, she quickly washed up and donned her garments, discarding the dancer's dress.

When the mirror turned on its pivot, she turned to greet Erik with delight. He held a basket over his arm, but other than that, he appeared as usual in his black evening dress, fedora hat, and cloak.

"What's in there?" asked Christine curiously, tempted to open the lid and peek at the contents of the basket, but Erik shooed her hand away. Instead, he offered his arm after gallantly bowing to her. She took it as he led her through the mirror and into his dark world.

They went through a few passageways until they were near the stage. She could hear the rehearsal through the walls and was glad she wasn't participating in it. The musical director was disciplining the group for their poor performances earlier that day. Feeling only the slightest hint of guilt and more than a little flush of freedom, she giggled as she pranced along after Erik, mindful of her sore knee, glad to have escaped the extra drills the director was now imparting on the company.

"Tsk tsk," said Erik in her ear. He wagged a finger at her, but she could tell he was smirking in the dark.

After they passed the stage area, they climbed upward. Her knee was starting to bother her, but she didn't complain. She didn't want to ruin whatever surprise Erik had in store for her.

They went up, past the dome of the ceiling, past the ballet rehearsal rooms. Erik guided her through a giant empty room with a lone piano of ebony, its ivory keys gleaming from the light coming through the portal windows. She'd never seen this space before. Apart from the piano, the room was dusty, as if it had not been used in a very long time. There were so many rooms in the Opera; it was impossible to see them all.

"Do you ever play here?" she asked. For what other explanation could there be for the spotless shine of the instrument versus the dust and dirt of the rest of the room?

"Sometimes, at night, when the Opera is empty. I grow restless below ground at times," he admitted softly. "And I do not like to see such a fine instrument go untouched."

He glanced back at her, his eyes intense before he led her near a large slanted window and angled what appeared to be a slat in the wall next to it. It was a trap door.

"After you, mademoiselle," he said, holding out a hand to assist her.

She placed her hand in his with no hesitation and slid sideways through the door, coming out on a part of the roof that was hidden between the dome and the left side of the building. The sun was shining low overhead, but this part of the roof was shaded. There was a little alcove before the roof sloped upward. Erik came through the trap door, closing it behind him. He led her over to a set of stairs that climbed steeply and then descended to a small hidden space on the other side, out of the shadows and into the sunlight.

Along the edges of the small rectangular space, set on a ledge underneath the carved stone faces on the façade of the building, were rows and rows of flowers in pots in numerous shapes and sizes. It was a makeshift flower garden, on the roof of the Opera.

"Oh, Erik!" said Christine as her eyes alighted on the bright pink, yellow, and purple petals. They waved gently in the early autumn breeze, an explosion of color against the white stone of the building.

Despite the warmth of the sun, the wind was cool at such a high elevation. Christine understood why Erik had insisted she dress warmly. She shivered slightly as she moved from pot to pot examining the flowers.

"What are they?" she asked, fingering the delicate blossoms from one to another so as not to neglect any. She recognized the roses, but the rest of the blooms were a mystery to her.

"These colorful ones are called cosmos. They are a species of sunflower and not native to France," explained Erik, sounding like a scientist who had memorized a book. He pointed to another one. "These are dahlias, a very dignified and stable plant. And these deep purple beauties are anemones or 'wind flowers' as they are sometimes called."

"It sounds like there is a story there," said Christine, turning on her heel to face him.

"Ah, yes," said Erik. "The name _anemone_ comes from the Greek word meaning 'daughter of the wind.' Ovid's _Metamorphoses_ says the plant was created by Aphrodite, the goddess of love, as she cried over her mortal lover, Adonis, the god of beauty. He died in Aphrodite's arms as she wept, and his blood mingled with her tears, creating the anemone flower."

"That is very beautiful and tragic," said Christine as she touched one of the flowers.

"As many Greek myths are," said Erik, moving on to the pale pink blooms on the end. "These, of course, are the last of the summer roses."

"Isn't Aphrodite also associated with roses?" asked Christine.

"Yes," replied Erik. "Another version of the story says that Aphrodite injured herself on a thorn from a rose bush, turning the white rose red with her blood."

Erik's eyes were bright. The tale reminded Christine of another story he'd told her about red and white roses, and a nightingale who defied the will of Allah.

"So much beauty from so much tragedy," she murmured.

"Mm," was all Erik mumbled in return.

"Such sad stories," said Christine with melancholy, leaning against the ledge. "I used to enjoy my father's tales as well. I think there were more unhappy ones than glad ones, but that's what made them memorable."

Erik frowned when she turned to him suddenly, curious.

"Do you believe we create our own happiness? Or do you think some divine destiny is involved?" she asked him. "Do you think we are fated for certain things to happen?"

"I wouldn't know, never having been happy myself," said Erik dryly.

Such honesty in his tone and yet, Christine sensed behind his mocking humor there was something he was not saying.

"There has never, ever, been a happy time in your life?" she questioned, disbelieving this could be the truth. She knew something of his background, those few memories he had shared, but not all the details. Despite his disfigurement, surely his entire life had not been completely miserable? Maybe she was too innocent and optimistic, but she just couldn't imagine a life that held no joy in it. In his music surely, he had to be content?

"Does right now count?" he joked, his hand flipping outward, palm up.

"Erik, I'm being perfectly serious," said Christine.

"So am I," he said, and this time he looked serious.

She put her hands on her hips. He was dodging her question.

"Come, I didn't bring you here so you could wax poetic," he said matter-of-factly. "I'm supposed to be cheering you up, remember?"

He was obviously uncomfortable with her topic of choice. Remembering the basket on his arm, Christine pulled at it playfully.

"All right then. What do you have here?" She gave a little tug, but he held firm to it.

"Ah, patience. It's still a virtue, Christine Daaé," he teased. Tugging off his cloak, he swept it around gracefully and spread it out in a corner of the little alcove. He gestured for her to sit. She obeyed, and he joined her a moment later, opening the basket so she could see the contents. Bread, cheese, fruit, and a bottle of red wine greeted her as he pulled them out one by one along with small china plates and two glasses.

"I thought you avoided spirits. You said they're not good for the throat," she admonished.

"You are quite right," he agreed. "I rarely indulge. But this day has called for a little indulgence, don't you think? Or should I studiously send you back to rehearsal?"

"Don't even joke about that!" she rebuked him with a laugh, holding out her glass so he could pour her some wine. He filled the glass about a third of the way full.

"Any more and it will go to your head," he warned.

She took a sip. She wasn't much of a wine drinker herself, but this was very good. She told him so.

"It's even better with the bread and cheese," he said as he offered her a slice of each. He brought forth the grapes next and Christine had a little feast, sitting on his beautiful cloak. She tried her very best not to spill any crumbs on it.

"Aren't you going to eat?" she asked him. He had sipped his wine when she wasn't looking directly at him, but she hadn't seen him take even the smallest bite of any of the delicious food.

"No, my dear," he said quietly.

Now that she thought of it, she had never seen him eat at all. They occasionally shared a cup of tea in his lair, but they'd never shared a meal. She wondered if it was because of the mask or his general disinterest in food. Perhaps it was both, but it was a shame he felt so uncomfortable as to not partake in this picnic that he had arranged. She wanted to say something to him, to coax him into relaxing. She noticed his stiff shoulders and tense muscles. He seemed ready to spring to his feet and bolt at any moment.

"I asked you a question earlier," she said shyly.

"And what was that?" he asked, fidgeting with his wine glass. Even when he was nervous, his movements were graceful. She didn't know how he managed that.

"Have you never truly been happy in your life?" She sincerely wanted to know.

He sighed and set his wine glass down. He was pondering what to tell her. There was a long silence before he spoke again. Christine set her plate aside, prepared to listen to whatever he had to say.

"There was once a time, I suppose, I was at peace, if not happy," he said, his angel's voice holding such depth of feeling. "When I stayed with Giovanni for that brief time, when it felt like my life had meaning and purpose, I was content enough."

He had told her of the master mason in Italy whom he had apprenticed under as a young man. Giovanni had been something of a father to him when he had never known his own father.

"I built a home in his little cellar, played music, invented things, as I learned the trade. I imagine it's because of him I was able to put my hands to this building, to find a place to live in some sort of harmony with this wretched world," he said slowly, his words thoughtful. "It didn't last, of course. These things never do."

He had also briefly spoken to her of Luciana, Giovanni's beautiful daughter, who had met a tragic end, falling from the rooftop garden of her home. Christine was suddenly remorseful she'd brought up this topic. She could see him remembering the past as the reality of his current surroundings blended with that place of long ago.

"It was not your fault," said Christine gently. She reached out a hand and could barely reach his knee. Her fingertips grazed him lightly. He looked at her steadily.

"What do you know of it?" His voice was slightly harsh.

"I only know what you have told me," she replied, swallowing nervously. Her intent had not been to make him angry. But she wanted him to speak freely to her of his past.

"And I told you the truth," he said, his eyes hard.

"It was a tragic accident, Erik," she said, trying to convince him. He clearly still blamed himself for what had happened all those years ago.

When he didn't respond, she dared to ask him something else. "Did you love her?"

His golden gaze turned bright as he looked at her.

"I was fifteen years old. I was infatuated with her." His voice was severe as he stood. "She was a spoiled child, as cruel as she was beautiful, as reckless as she was fascinating. A part of me hated her."

"But another part of you did not," said Christine, quietly understanding. She knew what it was like to be thinking of the wrong person for the wrong reasons at fifteen. It was part of growing up.

She stood and moved next to him, grasping at his arm.

"Erik, you mustn't blame yourself any longer," she said. "It was so long ago."

He looked around at the flowers. "And yet it feels like yesterday."

She wanted to embrace him but held back as his memories flooded him.

He gazed at her thoughtfully. "I suppose I became interested in plants then, scientifically speaking. She neglected that garden as much as I nurtured it. I longed for life instead of death. And yet, it wasn't meant to be."

He was full of such sorrow then that she wanted to weep. This was not how she had intended this day to go. She had to pull him out of his despair.

"But look," she gestured around her. "Look at what you've created now. This place of beauty. A place that is as full of life and warmth and love as I am."

She pointed to the building, to the little garden, and then to herself. His eyes focused on her again. A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Oh, Christine."

She fell into his arms and he held her gently, her head pressed lightly against his chest as he stroked her hair.

As they stood there, something behind Erik's shoulder caught her attention. A little dove perched on the edge of the roof twittered at her, then flew off in the direction of the sun which was sinking in the sky. The blue sky was starting to turn a golden hue, the color of Erik's eyes, Christine thought fancifully, as she took in the beauty of it.

"Oh!" she said, pulling from his embrace and scampering up the stairs to get a better view. "It's stunning!"

Impulsively, she headed toward the Pegasus above her head.

"You can't go that way," warned Erik, following behind her after setting the basket on the ledge and dusting off his cloak. He threw it back over his shoulders. "Come!"

He led her through another trap door off the roof where they weaved in and out of corridors before climbing more steps. She'd forgotten about her knee as they had rested, but felt it ache again as they climbed higher. As they emerged outside on the highest pinnacle of the roof, there was a narrow walkway that led to Apollo's Lyre, and below it to stairs that descended along the edge of the roof. Feeling encumbered by her cloak, she tore it off, despite the chill of the wind, and handed it to Erik, hurrying down the stairs ahead of him.

"Be careful!" he cautioned her, but she felt heedless, hurrying on until she was along the narrow edge near the winged horse.

The sky was a brilliant gold color now and she reached out her hand as if she could touch it. She sat down at the giant horse's feet, all breath gone from her. She was perched on top of a building that he had created, where all of Paris stretched out below her. The beauty of it was overwhelming.

Erik kept his distance, though not out of arm's reach, allowing her to breathe in the air and feel the autumn breeze blowing through her hair. It was cold in the wind without her cloak, but at that moment, she didn't care. The cool wind caressed her curls, blew the folds of her dress back, and caught her around the waist like a gentle lover until she realized it was Erik holding her and not the wind. Erik's masked face was pressed against her hair, his hands were moving on her waist and over her dress. Despite the chill of the wind, she felt like she was on fire, the sky in front of her flames come to consume her.

She heard him singing quietly, a song she didn't recognize, but its beauty caught her. The lyrics were so light she could barely hear him, something about birds and flying and the moon on fire. She turned her head and met his eyes. The music drifted away on the wind. She thought he was going to kiss her. She realized she wanted him to kiss her. He was so close, his lips a mere breath away.

Instead, he said calmly in her ear, "We should go. Once the sun sets, the darkness will come swiftly, and the temperature will drop. It will not be safe here."

Her mind was hazy as she tried to register his words. Hadn't he wanted to kiss her? She didn't understand why he was pulling away.

His hands were still on her waist, but his manner was distant as he guided her away from the edge of the building and back to the safety of solid ground.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: I have upped the rating of the story because of this chapter.

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Chapter 3

They descended so speedily to Erik's lair, Christine could hardly keep up with him. Her knee was stinging, but she didn't ask him to slow his pace. He had promised her a trip to the Bois, so they were to freshen up and wait for night to fall in the house on the lake.

The endless stairs and rapid walking had finally taken its toll on her. She limped into the Louis-Philippe room as Erik exited to prepare their travel plans for later that evening. It was a wonder he had not noticed her hobble, but he seemed preoccupied.

Christine shed her garments, tossing them hastily on the bed. She pulled on a robe and went into the great marble bath to examine her knee. She unwrapped the bandage and saw the swelling. Wincing, she gingerly looked around the bathroom for a medical kit like the one in her dressing room. Luckily, she found it on a little shelf by the washbasin. Popping open the lid, she pulled out the ointment and placed generous amounts of the cool substance on her inflamed skin. She carefully wrapped her knee with a clean cloth and returned the kit to the shelf. She placed the discarded bandage in the little wastebasket by the door.

She returned to the bedroom and went to the wardrobe to plan her outfit for the evening. There was a dove gray woolen outfit that would do nicely for their outing.

"Christine, I have fresh towels for you," said Erik as he lightly knocked on her door.

She moved behind the screen near the wardrobe and told him he could enter the room. She would save her bath for later, when they returned from the Bois, and would be glad of the fresh linens then. She heard him disappear into the bathroom.

A few moments later, Erik emerged holding something white in his hand. She could see him through the gaps in the top of the screen.

"What is this?" he asked, bewildered and irritated.

Christine gasped as he held up the bloodied bandage that she had discarded in the bathroom. _Stupid_ , she thought, she should have burned it! Erik would have seen it one way or another – and of course, he would question her about it.

"Christine?" She could hear the anger rising in his voice, anger mixed with concern. "This is clearly not from your elbow."

"I—well, I—" she stuttered. Hastily, she said, "I hurt my knee earlier as well."

She saw his mouth drop open and then shut slowly. "Why didn't you say anything?"

She didn't answer him. How could she explain her embarrassment without sounding like a complete child?

"And you allowed us to do all that walking?" he accused, his voice rising. "You stood on the edge of the roof as if nothing was wrong. You could have fallen to your death. Reckless, heedless girl!"

"But you were there," she cried in her defense. "You would not have let me fall."

He moved closer to the screen, furious at her. Christine sank down behind it, so she could not see him. He towered over it; he could no doubt see her trying to hide from him.

"I didn't want to ruin our day," she admitted to him softly.

There was silence from Erik for several minutes. She thought he might turn and leave, but he didn't. She waited patiently for his anger to dissipate.

"Are you decent?" he asked, his voice chilly but no longer livid at her. "Christine?"

She made no response, and he exhaled in frustration.

"I'm sorry for losing my temper. Are you going to come out from there, or must I come and fetch you?"

It sounded more like a promise than a threat. Her well-being was obviously of more concern to him than her modesty, or even _his_. Well, he had seen her in her robe before, hadn't he? Yet, she suddenly felt shy. She took a deep breath and stepped out from behind the screen, head down, prepared to face her punishment. She knew they would not be going to the Bois this evening after all.

"Sit," he commanded. He gestured behind her.

She obeyed him at once, moving over to the end of the bed and sinking down onto the mattress.

"Which knee is it?" he asked harshly.

She pointed and then waited to see what he would do next.

For a moment, he just stood there, hovering over her like some dark god come to take his vengeance upon her. This image was totally at odds with his gentle touch when he finally knelt before her and grasped her ankle.

"Do I have your permission to ascertain the extent of your injuries?" he asked softly.

She nodded, unable to deny him anything. She felt surprisingly calm, despite her racing heartbeat.

He pulled her slipper from her foot and lightly touched her ankle, moving slowly up her calf, applying pressure in some places, skimming his fingers over others. She watched him with no sound from her lips, and taking this as a good sign, he steadily moved his hands upward. When he reached her knee, she finally winced.

"I wrapped it just as you did my elbow," she told him, her voice shaking slightly. "I repeated everything you did. I'm sure it's fine. Just a little sore from walking."

"Hush," he breathed. He stopped as he came to the bandage beneath her robe, then looked up at her with a question. "I need to see."

Nodding slowly, she moved aside the white silk, exposing her bare leg to him at just above her knee. She heard his little intake of breath and felt the slight tremor from his hands which were still resting on her. His fingers were cold but not in an uncomfortable way. Slowly, he unwrapped the bandage and exposed her raw skin. The ointment she had administered had not been completely absorbed yet, and it glistened against the red abrasions. He took in the swelling and nodded as if he was expecting it.

"Don't move," he ordered. He left the room and she waited. She could have covered herself and fled, locked the door, holed up in the bathroom – anything to escape this awkwardness, but she didn't. She didn't even cover her leg while he was gone.

When he returned, satisfied she had done as she was told, he handed her a glass and ordered her to drink it.

"It will help with the pain," he explained.

It smelled like some sort of herbal tea. She drank it down, hoping whatever it was would not cloud her already muddled thoughts. But she trusted him. If he said it would help, then she believed him. She was certain he would not take advantage of her in such a state.

He took the glass from her and set it on a nearby table. Then he pulled out a tube from his cloak, knelt next to her again, and massaged an oily substance around her cuts.

"What is that?" she asked curiously. "It smells like lavender."

"That's because it is," he affirmed. "It's a mixture of chamomile and lavender among other oils. You did well, but this will work better for the swelling."

"Where did you learn all this?" she asked him. "I think you would make a fine physician."

He ignored her compliment and murmured something about the gypsies. When he was done with the oil, he capped the lid, setting it on the table next to the empty glass. He returned to rewrap the bandage around her knee. He pulled firmly but gently on the fabric as he wound it around and around. When he reached the end, he tied a small knot.

What he did next surprised her. With his hands still on her leg, he leaned forward and lightly blew against the bandage. Even through the fabric of the gauze, she could feel his warm breath on her skin.

"For luck and good health," he said, leaning back.

Was this a gypsy superstition? She didn't know, but his gesture had caused a very different reaction from the one she guessed he had intended. Or maybe this was what he had intended? She couldn't be sure. Her thigh shivered with little goosebumps, but she wasn't cold. His hands were still on her, and the thought of them caused warmth to pool between her legs. She felt flushed.

He noticed her reaction, and suddenly his hands began to move. They started kneading slow circles around her calf, skirting her knee and then brushing her thigh in wonder. She shivered again.

"Erik," she breathed. At his name, his hands stilled, and his eyes searched hers from behind the mask.

"Don't stop," she urged him. "It feels nice."

"Christine," he choked.

"Please," she said breathlessly.

One hand curled around her thigh above her knee, trembling. The other travelled past her knee to her inner thigh. She placed her hand on his, not to stop him but to guide him farther. When they reached the edge of her robe, he stopped.

"I want you to think about this before we go on," he said, his voice sounding desperate. "I need you to be sure."

She thought about it for less than a second and steered his hand under her robe closer to her core. She released him there and left him to explore.

This was what she had wanted since that night they had sung _Aïda_ , wasn't it? How many nights since then had she imagined this?

His cool hand caressing her warm inner thigh was driving her mad for him. She grasped the lapels of his coat and drew him closer to her.

She had wanted him to kiss her on the rooftop. Something had stopped him. Well, she would not be denied now.

"Kiss me, Erik!" she exhaled. "Please!"

There was only the slightest hesitation before his mouth descended on hers. She felt the edges of the mask, but she didn't care as her lips pressed against his. They were cool like the rest of him, but his tongue was hot as he suddenly broke her lips apart and crashed his mouth against hers. She could feel his desire which was rising with her own. Their lips were moving in a silent symphony and a beautiful aching pressure was building below her belly.

When his hand moved on her thigh again, she whimpered. But his fingers continued their upward motion until they were perched just below her most secret place.

His mouth broke away from hers. "Tell me to stop," he pleaded helplessly, his voice sweeter than she had ever heard it.

"No, don't stop," she sighed in contentment.

"Please, Christine," he begged her. His thumb made circular motions against her inner thigh.

"I don't want you to stop," she repeated. The ache inside her was almost painful. She wanted something she didn't fully understand; she only knew she wanted it. She wanted _him_.

His eyes were an intense gold, full of fire and burning with passion. Hers were hazy with desire as she looked at him.

"Yes," she gave him permission.

This time he didn't hesitate. He kissed her tenderly, but the intensity increased and when one finger grazed across her curls, she cried out against him. Her eyes opened wide as he touched her throbbing center and then slipped one finger inside of her.

"Christine?" he asked, breaking their kiss, but not removing his hand from her. He cupped her gently.

She had never felt anything so intense, so exhilarating. Something amazing was happening to her. And this man who knew her, who loved her, could make her feel like no one had ever made her feel before. She wanted more of it, more of _him_. She shifted slightly against him. Instinctively understanding, he rubbed against her, again and again. His lips moved to her neck and her thoughts were a pinpoint of pleasure as his fingers moved within her. He was an expert musician, and he played her body as though she were a fondly loved instrument. Those hands, those beautiful, graceful hands she had watched so many times caress piano keys, were now caressing her body. One hand at her center, the other moved to her breast as he kissed her. She thought she would burst from the sheer bliss of her feelings. He was gentle, yet passionate – and her body responded. When she thought she had reached a pinnacle, he would pull her back and play her again. There was music pouring out of her soul as he touched her. Increasingly, his movements became more rapid and she was panting. Just when she thought she could handle no more, his fingers pushed deep inside of her and she cried out his name in ecstasy. Her body was pulsing, throbbing intensely as she came down from the crescendo of their shared passion.

Moments afterward she was still seeing stars as Erik gently pulled his hands from her, kissed her lightly, then settled her down on the bed. He laid an afghan over her and pulled out two pillows. One he placed behind her head, the other he positioned carefully under her knee. He pulled out a third and propped it under her leg near her ankle.

"You should keep that elevated," he said softly. His eyes were still looking at her lovingly, but his voice was businesslike again. "I'll check in on you later."

He turned to leave, but Christine stopped him. "Erik?"

What to say to him? Thank you? She didn't think that was appropriate. I love you? No – it was too soon for that, wasn't it?

He seemed to understand her struggles.

"Goodnight, my love," he whispered tenderly.

"Goodnight, Erik," she sighed, smiling at him affectionately.

She thought she saw the ghost of a smile in return and wonder in his eyes before he closed the door, and she drifted into a peaceful sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

When Christine woke, the house on the lake was quiet. There was no music playing, no pounding of piano keys, no organ pipes bellowing through the walls. She had stayed in Erik's house enough times to guess the unnatural silence meant he was gone.

Curious to see if her instincts were right, she wrapped the afghan around her and left her bedroom, testing her knee as she went. It felt better than it had a few hours ago. Erik's ministrations had clearly done the trick. If she'd been left to her own devices, she probably would have been writhing in pain.

Christine wandered from room to room, her bare feet noiseless on the carpeted floors. She paused in the open doorway to his bedroom. Everything was dark and silent. The kitchen was also empty. In the sitting room, the candles burned low. Erik was not in the house. It was late, the middle of the night, as indicated by the antique clock on the mantle. Wondering where he had gone off to, she had a fleeting thought, dismissed it and then considered it again.

She had a hunch where he could be, but did she dare disturb him there? If she left the house, Erik would be angry at her. He would not like her going such a long distance on her own, putting unnecessary pressure on her knee. Then again, if she was seeking him out, perhaps he would forgive her just this once? Considering what had happened between them, she really had no choice. She wanted to know his frame of mind. What was he thinking? She hardly knew.

Her mind made up, Christine dressed and left the house on the lake, certain she knew her way. She climbed higher and higher until she was back in the upper levels of the Opera House. She followed the path they had taken earlier that day at a slower pace, beyond the painted dome of the auditorium and the ballet rehearsal rooms, until she reached the long gallery with the lone piano.

She hesitated, glancing around. The Opera was peaceful this time of night, beautifully slumbering like a great fairytale kingdom until the dawn would come and disrupt the quiet with its onslaught of people and activity. Of course, it wasn't completely calm and silent. Like everything else in this seemingly enchanted place, the silence was an illusion, for there was a solitary figure sitting at a piano waiting for her to break that serenity; she was sure of it.

As she opened the door to that forgotten room, she heard the music. It was beautiful and poignant, such a perfect pitch to how she was feeling that she stopped and inhaled with wonder. The sweet sounds his hands were creating on the piano keys touched her with profound recognition, as if he were pulling from her very soul the desires she had long kept hidden from him. The ebb and flow of the stirring notes echoed the events of earlier that night. It made her blush with remembrance.

Erik halted his playing when he heard her enter.

"I suppose there's no point in me lecturing you," he said dryly, his back to her. His white shirt glowed in the candlelight. His tailcoat lay across the back of the piano bench beside him. The magic of the music lingered in the air despite his ironic tone of voice.

"No, indeed," she agreed with him. She went to stand behind him at the piano.

"You should be resting," he reproached her mildly.

His posture was casual. He wasn't angry with her, she thought with relief.

She gave a little shrug. "I wanted to see you."

He glanced around at her, his golden eyes shining with love and concern.

"How is the knee? Will I have to carry you home?" he asked with a touch of humor, though she didn't doubt he would do it, if he had to, rather than see her suffer. It was comforting and alarming to know she had such an effect on him.

"It is feeling much better. Thank you," she replied sincerely, not wanting him to worry.

She had noted his use of the term _home_ and its implied intimacy. His house on the lake was as much her home as it was his; that's what he was telling her. This should have made her nervous, but it didn't. She filed the thought away where she could examine it later.

Erik adjusted the sheet music on the piano stand and flicked his wrists, rolling down his shirtsleeves in two quick motions. The ink on the page looked wet; she was certain she had caught him in the middle of composing. She knew she'd never heard the piece he'd been playing. It had been too honest a reflection of her feelings – and _his_ apparently, she thought with a tremor. A part of her longed to hear more of it.

"What were you playing? It was beautiful," she said. She dared to touch him then, lightly rubbing his shoulders in appreciation. A day ago, he wouldn't have allowed it. He would have flinched away from her. Now, he leaned into her touch. Tonight, they were breaking all the rules.

"I made it up, just now," he said quietly. "I was inspired."

He looked at her reverently.

Her cheeks flushed, and she hung her head, wanting to turn away in embarrassment, but she was unable to move. He turned and grasped her around the waist, pulling her to him. He held her tightly, embracing her against him, burying his head against her.

"I love you," he breathed. "You don't have to say it in return. But I want you to know it. I _need_ you to know it."

She touched the top of his head, running her fingers through his dark hair. Her body shivered in his arms.

"I know," she said. "I've always known."

She leaned down and kissed him lightly on the lips. She wanted to tell him what she was feeling but didn't know how. This was where she was lacking in maturity. Her inability to express her true emotions hindered her time and again. Perhaps that was why it was easier for her to speak to him through music. But she didn't want to run away from him. She felt she owed him more than that.

"Erik?" she started tentatively.

"Yes?" His voice was husky as his hands caressed little circles up and down her back. She almost forgot what she wanted to say in this sudden assault of physical bliss.

"I think… I mean… I know…" she faltered.

 _Oh, his hands!_ If he didn't stop, she would be utterly lost to him, and what she wanted to say would fade away with the night. She put her hands on his arms to still him. It helped to calm her mind.

"Whatever the future brings, whatever comes… You—You matter to me," she said sincerely.

His hands tightened imperceptibly where they rested on her.

Be brave, Christine, she told herself. He needed her now. After tonight, she couldn't desert him. He had given her the gift of a beautiful day, and she wanted to give him something equally precious in return.

When she spoke next her voice was strong and sure, "And I love you too."

A glorious sound escaped his lips, incoherent but lovely in its utterance. He wound his thin arms around her and held her for a long while, the silence of the room peaceful, a kind of music of its own.

He released her at last and turned back to the sheet music.

"Let's sing, shall we?" he suggested. She nodded in assent. She had never seen him look so happy.

"And what should we sing?"

He pursed his lips as if this were the most important decision in the world.

"You decide," she told him, moving around the piano to face him.

He shuffled the music so the song on top was buried beneath several others. Christine sighed wistfully as it disappeared in the pile. She hoped she would hear it again someday.

When Erik's fingers struck the keys with sure and steady strokes, he turned his head and gave her a radiant smile.

"Ready?" he asked, lifting a graceful hand in command.

Lovingly, she smiled back at him, eager to give him her all, this time with no hesitations, slip-ups or mistakes; all her doubts were gone. As the music played, she was transported back to the little garden on the rooftop, the sun shining down on her, Erik holding her in his arms. Everything felt warm and right with the world.

"Now, sing!"


End file.
